Bright Star
by sovery
Summary: Inspired by the impressionist wing at the DIA. Liam the artist, and Buffy his muse. The Belle Époque. Paris. Purple prose. Poetry.


**Title: **Bright Star

**Word Count**: 100 x 14

**Summary**: Inspired by the impressionist wing at the DIA. Liam the artist, and Buffy his muse. The Belle Époque. Paris. Purple prose. Poetry.

**A/N: **I really have no excuse. I'm in the middle of a million other projects (including _three_ AU's set in Ireland, go figure) but I never finish anything and when inspiration struck today I wanted to finish something. I'm not even sure what the hell this is.

* * *

**Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—**

There's really no reason for him to pause in the street. The girls isn't _that_ pretty, dressed as she is, in dark unbecoming colors, but the hint of gold from beneath her hat and what looks like beautiful skin prompt him to halt anyway. There's something sort of _good_ about her, an air of innocence that he certainly never projected, even at her age. Can he capture that lightness of expression in paint, he wonders. The thought of spending the evening at a brothel is suddenly unappealing. If his fickle fancy has found a muse, who is he to argue?

**Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night**

She's Hank Summers' daughter, as it turns out, which makes it so much the easier meeting her. He's been meaning to find a new art dealer anyway, and it's common knowledge Hank's wife chooses his clients and is social with them. Getting invited to dinner is easy- keeping his expression neutral as Buffy appears dressed in white, luminous, lovely- is not. He charms them all over dinner, this perfect little family, and he takes pains not to be seen scrutinizing her so closely. He smile is bright as the gaslight. Late that night he paints her for the first time.

**And watching, with eternal lids apart**

He wouldn't have expected her, an unmarried girl from a good family, to frequent the Parisian cafes, and yet here she is, intently listening to a man with a bit of grey in his hair. Liam bristles. She seems intent, but he relaxes when another young man and woman join them. The girl chirps like a bird and her voice mingles with Buffy's honeyed tones and the older man's crisp but mellow speech. It's that silent boy who's the more immediate threat. He looks at Buffy like her delicate profile holds the secrets of the universe. Liam knows the feeling.

**Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite**

His friends have become impatient with him. He'd been so social when he first arrived- his work was gaining acclaim and he had plenty of canvases ready to be sold- but of late he's been something of a recluse, consumed by his work. There are a thousand pencil drawings of the same girl (hardly profitable subject matter) and as weeks pass he paints her. He's only spoken with her twice but he's obsessed, worshiping her image. Gazing at his art he wonders how the hell he's going to hide this from her parents when they ask to see his work.

**The moving waters at their priestlike task**

He's sketching the Seine as something of a change when she greets him softly, shyly. But there's something bold in her eyes and something blooming in his chest. He invites her to sit with him, and with a glance and a wave to her friends, she does. They speak of Paris, and how they both love it, expatriates from other countries. She recounts amusing tales of her struggles to learn French. He tells her what it was like when he first arrived, penniless and proud, determined that his name should be spoken with the same reverence as the old masters.

**Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,**

They begin to meet without a chaperone. Liam's self-control has never been so tested. One weekend when Buffy's meant to be with a friend, she's soaked by a passing carriage. They run to his apartment to clean up. He watches her bathe, savoring the danger, stroking her sweet form and shivering skin. That night she watches him paint a landscape, glad in layers of blankets and one of his shirts. His brushstrokes are steady, sure, and his eyes frequently meet hers, even as his hands move. He whispers as he kisses her that the rolling hills are her curves disguised.

**Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask**

This is the girl that lies beneath her polite mask: wild, giving, passionate, _his_. Her pretty manners vanish as he eats at her mouth and she clutches his shoulders. His civility has been shattered. Love _is_ madness, as poets have long proclaimed, and he never wants to get better. He tries to restrain himself from the savagery he's capable of, trying to be soft and gentle with her, but she too is a passionate thing and he might not have taken her innocence in the way he wanted but he has no regrets when she comes undone in his arms.

**Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—**

He proposes in January, shortly after her birthday. Her parents don't quite approve but he's made a strong suit and she loves him. Strange that a creature so pure and perfect would, but he's promised her the world. He'll begin with a tour of Wales, England, Scotland- and even his native Ireland. He wants to abscond with her for a few months and his increased success means they can easily afford it. They marry two short months later, in March, and certainly it's no surprise to anyone who's seen his paintings recently.

On their honeymoon, they hardly see the scenery.

**No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,**

Marriage suits him, but sometimes it makes him mad. For instance: William Pratt. The ponce of a poet who his wife insists is merely friendly. Liam's willing to concede friendship _might_ be on the other man's mind, but when he sees them interact, he's sure it's only a means to an end.

She becomes angry when he mentions it, and demands to know why he doesn't trust her. He does. He knows in his heart she would never betray him. Still, he's inwardly ecstatic when Buffy, gaze downcast, mentions she's ended that friendship. He never says he told her so.

**Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,**

Liam has had plenty of sex before but it's _nothing_ like being with Buffy. Their union is a holy thing, the most rapturous moment of his life each time, and he knows it pleases her when he whispers her name like a benediction, so he does. As wonderful as their physical intimacy is, he sometimes thinks this, the lying together afterwards, is the best part. He's sprawled out beside her, his head on her pretty breasts as her fingers stroke through his hair. If he were a cat, he would be purring. Love, he is discovering, alters his every perception.

**To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,**

Buffy's self-conscious and his constant staring probably doesn't help. He can't seem to stop though, too entranced by the faint swell of her belly. Every time he sees her, he fairly glows with masculine pride. Their child is growing inside of her and he's scared, but so, so happy. So hopeful. They both are.

He remembers his own mother with fear- all the children she lost. But Buffy's young and strong and healthy and how could anything go wrong in their lives? No, he puts aside fear and focuses instead on the sweet knowledge that this is another beginning together.

**Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,**

It's the New Year and they can hear their neighbors' laughter as a raucous party goes on next-door. If someone had told him five years ago that he'd rather stay in with his wife and young child he'd have laughed. Has he grown up then? It must have happened while he was distracted.

A small coo reminds him what he has been distracted by, and he turns his attention back to his wife and daughter, so small and pretty, as Buffy tries to keep her happy. She's not a good sleeper, their girl. That's fine: he'd happily stay awake forever.

**Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,**

He catches her frowning over the little lines that have grown from the corners of her eyes. She sees him watching her peer into the mirror and rolls her eyes at him.

"It's not polite to stare," she quips.

He catches her up in his arms, weaker but still able to sweep her off her feet, and kisses her neck.

"Who could help himself when faced with you," he whispers into her skin. He makes her gasp before she replies.

"As I recall," she murmurs as he carries her to their bed, "You violently encouraged a few men to try."

**And so live ever—or else swoon to death.**

"Everyone's dying," she whispers one evening, and it's an exaggeration that rings true. They feel old. It hardly concerned him when they were younger, but they both hate that she will likely outlive him. Her parents have passed. His certainly have, not that he's seen them since his father threw him out, screaming that he'd never make anything of himself. But he had.

"Don't worry," he says. "We're going to live forever, you and I." He looks at a long-ago painted portrait of her that hangs above their fireplace, and one of their children. There are many kinds of immortality.


End file.
